


Wait, that's MY idiot!

by KwisatchHaderach



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Missing Scene, One Shot, Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KwisatchHaderach/pseuds/KwisatchHaderach
Summary: How Crowley found out Aziraphale was getting tangled up with Nazis before the church scene.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 80





	Wait, that's MY idiot!

**Author's Note:**

> I straight-up stole this idea from a screenshot of a Tumblr post I saw on Instagram, but unfortunately I don't know who made the original post. If you know, lmk and I'll credit them. 
> 
> I loved the idea that Crowley was working for British Intelligence during the war. His demonic mission would ostensibly be to prolong the war, or just cause chaos, but I imagine his personal goal would be to become James Bond. His whole badass suave spy thing would definitely just fall apart if Aziraphale got involved, though, and it would be funny to see that happen from a outsider's perspective, especially if that outsider was a regular British spy who was suspicious of the demonic success Crowley would have undoubtedly have in spying.

Something was wrong with that Antony J. Crowley.

  
Richard Hunter had been scurrying around the dark dirty tunnels underneath war-torn London long enough to know when someone had gone a bit funny, and Crowley, in his opinion, was as mad as a March hare.

  
It wasn’t that he was bad at his job—in fact he had become something of a legend amongst the underground—it was that he seemed to enjoy it too much. With his dark, well-cut suits, and brilliantly unsettling white smile, his reputation for speed and effectiveness was matched only by his cavalier attitude towards the constant danger they were all in from bombs and enemy spies alike. He seemed to have no problem getting into and out of places deemed impenetrable by their commanders, and had a habit of producing stolen enemy documents at the very meetings where he was first being ordered to steal them. Then, with complete disregard for the looks of awe he would receive from all present, save for a single self-satisfied smile, he would tip his hat and saunter off into the shadows like a musician leaving a successful concert.

  
There was apparently no mission he couldn’t handle, no intelligence he couldn’t obtain, no trap he couldn’t escape. If there was a mole in their ranks, he could identify him the second they were in the same room. When assassins from the Reich planted a bomb in his apartment, his chief complaint was the damage done to his favorite suit. Crowley immodestly attributed his success to mere “style,” but Richard was growing suspicious of just how lucky Crowley kept turning out to be.

  
Then there were the times when his enthusiasm became downright frightening. Grim discussions of deeds that needed to be done, chaos that needed to be sown, were met with a grin that was positively devilish.

  
The worst part, though, was his damned sunglasses. He never took them off, not even at night. This part didn’t make Crowley a psychopath, in Richard’s opinion, it just made him a wanker.

  
Richard, being a practical, British sort of fellow, didn’t dare articulate to himself the true depth of his suspicions, but whether Crowley was a lunatic, a German sleeper agent, or the devil himself in his Sunday best, it all came to the same thing. He had planned to voice his suspicions to his superiors in the hopes Crowley would be arrested, until something happened that changed everything.

  
Crowley swaggered into the dingy concrete conference room one afternoon in his usual bored, haughty manner, and sighed “Alright boys, what’s this all about?” in a tone that suggested he would rather be anywhere else at the moment.

  
Richard scowled, but his partner William shot him a warning glance. Apparently Crowley’s record exempted him from admonishment for his attitude.

  
“The Fritz is in town,” William said, tossing a handful of photographs onto the table. “Glozier and Harmony arrived this morning, straight from Berlin. Top brass. Buried under a mountain of fake papers, but luckily someone recognized them and snapped a photograph on Albert Bridge. We did some digging. Word is they’re after more wacky occult stuff, prophecies and the like.”

  
“That’s Nazis for you,” muttered Crowley, peering at the photographs with his hands in his pockets. “Do they have a contact?”

  
“From what we can tell, there’s only one place in London that can provide them what they want. Owner is a shopkeep. Nothing suspicious about him up until now,” said Richard, indicating a particular photograph out of the pile.

  
Crowley laughed. “A shopkeep? What idiot went and got himself mixed up with…”

  
He trailed off as he examined the photograph.

  
Richard frowned. Crowley was now leaning over the table, staring intently at the photograph in question, which displayed a somewhat portly gentleman in a tan suit, with a shock of whitish hair.

  
Crowley was as still as a snake curled up under a rock, and the same tension was visible in every line of his body. A muscle was jumping in his jaw.

  
Richard didn’t fancy himself a mind reader, but Crowley’s frustration was so tangible he felt as though he could see the word “FUCK!” loudly ricocheting around the inside of his skull.

  
“We were thinking we could send regular police around, find some reason to arrest him…” William began.

  
“I’ll handle it,” Crowley snapped.

  
William blinked. “Pardon?”

  
“I said,” Crowley said heatedly. “I’ll handle it.”

  
He turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

  
Richard felt as though he had witnessed a miracle. For once in his life, Antony Crowley had lost his cool.

  
“Blimey, what was all that about, eh?” said William after a moment of stunned silence, rubbing his forehead. “You know, maybe you were right about him. I’ll back you up if you want to take this up with head office, maybe we can get him bumped down to messenger duty or something…”

  
“No,” said Richard definitively. Here at last was the thing he hadn’t seen in Crowley before, the lack of which had made him so frightened: a weakness. Richard recognized it, for it was the same weakness he had for his wife, Grace. Had it been her face in that photograph, Richard mused, he might have reacted the same way.

  
Whether or not Crowley’s exact relationship with this man was strictly legal at present was another matter, but Richard reasoned that his job was to keep secrets, and this one wouldn’t do anyone any harm.

  
“No,” Richard repeated, watching Crowley’s form retreating down the tunnel. “He’s just as human as we are.”


End file.
